The day I discovered chamois butter.

Today was Chicago-based team XXX's three-state ride. The intended route consisted of riding north to Wisconsin, back to Chicago, south to Indiana, and back up to Chicago. It was apparent by mile 20 that the goals of completing the ride were ambitious.

This is the whole route. I started and ended at Northwestern.

My teammates Alex and Aaron accompanied me today. We started out at a no-drop pace typical of XXX's usual Saturday morning rides, with about 50 people. We took a pit-stop at Highland Park (mile 12), and the group split up. We were left with about 25 people going to Wisconsin, and from there the pace really picked up. The group was going anywhere from 22-25mph most of the time, and I was sure they would slow down when people realized how much farther we had to ride. Uh, nope.

At around mile 20, I got caught at a long light, and had to pace back with three very Euro-looking guys. I was just about to shoot myself for getting popped so soon, but we caught up to the group just in time. After that it was smooth going all the way to the state line.

The ride was gorgeous on the way up. Instead of taking dicey Sheridan Rd north, we went west, and looped around the more rural roads of northern Illinois. Few cars, good roads, expansive fields, hay bales, horses, even rolling hills! However, the different route also meant that at any point in the ride, I had absolutely no idea where I was, which was further incentive to stick tightly to the group.

I fell behind the main group a few times, especially when they accelerated on the windy sections, but there were always stragglers around me to help catch back up. I made sure to keep Aaron and Alex in sight, and tried to stay in the front third for buffer in case I fell back. Also, red lights are good to me.

We stopped at mile 50 for an arrival break at a gas station, where chamy butter proceeded to brighten my appreciation for life. Chafing cured, we turned around to go home, keeping the same brisk pace, taking the less-scenic Sheridan all the way down.

The ride back was uneventful, save for a crash in a gnarly turn before Highland Park. Our own Alex took the turn too wide, but graceful as he is, managed to land in the grass, very much like a cat, with not a scrape. Another rider wasn't as lucky but got back on. We three NU riders left the group and rode back ourselves from Highland Park, and Alex and I rewarded our 87 mile day with the best part about cycling: lots of food, with hot sauce of course.

Today's challenging but glorious miles upped my standards, and reminded me why I love cycling more than I've loved anything for a while. Next chance I get, I'm going to break the 100-mile mark.

Strawberry rhubarb cobbler.

I made this dessert for the first time for a party tonight. I usually feel that I lose about 10 IQ points every time I get near an oven, but this turned out just perfectly, and was a breeze to make. Recipe courtesy of my friend Ritu.

Filling ingredients

4 cups sliced strawberries
4 cups of diced rhubarb
5 tbsp flour
1 cup white sugar (1/2 cup if ripe strawberries)

Topping ingredients

1.5 cups flour
1 cup brown sugar
1 cup butter
1 cup rolled oats

Method

- Preheat oven to 375.
- Mix all filling ingredients, and place in 9x13 inch baking dish.
- Mix all topping ingredients and crumble on top of the fruit.
- Bake 45 minutes, or until crisp and lightly browned.

Dinner for seven.

This morning was my first trip to the Evanston farmer's market after it opened its doors for the spring, and oh, I've missed it so. It is asparagus and rhubarb season in the midwest, and the vendors were overflowing with them, as well as with fresh potted herbs and green onion as big as leeks. In the end, I picked up a bunch of nice-looking tarragon, three huge bunches of purple asparagus, and some shallots for the night's dinner party.

My friend Eugenio, whom I've known and loved since freshman year, is moving away tomorrow, and this long Memorial Day weekend was perfect timing for my roommate and I to invite him and other friends over for one last dinner.

On the menu:
- lemon-oregano chicken thighs, seared in butter then roasted
- carrots and shallots, cooked with butter and tarragon
- roasted asparagus
- forbidden rice with slivered almonds

For dessert:
- homemade fruit tarte, a la the roommate

I chopped and marinated everything in advance. Half an hour before guests arrived, I turned on the rice-cooker and browned the chicken in batches. The chicken then went into the oven with the asparagus, and I cooked the carrots on the stove top. My timing was spot-on: everything finished at the same time, fifteen minutes after people arrived.

All the food was eaten, and people got seconds - always a good sign. As much as I cook and think about food and really enjoy what I make for myself, I'm frequently self-conscious when it comes to others eating what I make for them. Sometimes I worry that the only reason I love my own cooking is simply because, even at this stage in my culinary self-education, I view everything that I make as a remarkable chemistry experiment, and I am still in awe that my hands can create such things at all. That said, it is difficult to view my cooking in an objective light, and I often wonder what people really think about it.

During cycling spring break, I spent a couple hours every night making food for the sixteen members of my team, and I enjoyed every minute of the challenge because I love many of them like family. However, during the week, I had the impression that the food I had planned out was not quite adequate for the purposes of a training camp. Here I was making eggplant parmesan and margherita pizzas when these voracious athletes should be getting meat and carbs and, well, loads more food in general. Towards the end of the week, I learned that someone had indeed complained to another that I was making everything too complicated, that I was trying to show off, that I should have been making functional food instead of fancy food.

I could only assume that others thought at least a little bit the same way, and it made me feel terrible. I couldn't stop thinking about the comment for days, and I still consider that week an embarrassingly unsuccessful episode in my short history as a wannabe chef.

The point is, cooking for others is to me one of the most basic ways of showing love. It is important to me that the food I make conveys this message, but I'm not yet at a point where I can be fully confident that this happens each time.